The Ink-Keeper's Apprentice (17 page)

"You've made the right choice, Koichi," she said calmly. "It's a wonderful opportunity for you. I wanted you to go, for your sake, but I didn't want to influence you. We'll miss you, of course, but your future is more important."

Grandmother sat in silence.

"What do you think, Grandmother?" I asked.

"Will they treat you kindly?" she asked, leaning over the charcoal brazier to warm her hands.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We've been enemies, Koichi, and the war has been over for only a few years." Mother and I looked at her in amazement.

"It's all over, Mother," said Mother. "We're friends now. People don't go on being enemies forever."

"There are things people don't forget," said Grandmother.

"I can always say I'm a Korean," I suggested.

"Nonsense. You're no more Korean than I or your mother. You should be proud of your blood. Besides, look at what's happening in Korea. Koreans are their enemies now."

"Mother, it isn't as if Koichi fought in the war—he's only a boy," said Mother.

"That's just the problem. He's not old enough to fend for himself."

"But he is not going alone. He'll be with his father."

"What difference does that make?" Grandmother grunted. "His father! So you think he is going to be a responsible father all of a sudden; don't be naive, Masako. Has he ever been a good father? What has he ever done for Koichi? Has he ever helped pay for his education? He's done nothing, absolutely nothing. He's not of our blood; he's an outsider. I never trusted that man, and I never will."

"How can you say that?" I was taken aback by her bitterness. She'd never spoken like this in front of me before. "You don't even know him. You've never met my father."

"That'll be enough, Koichi," Mother cautioned me.

"That's the trouble with you, Masako," said Grandmother. "You're too softhearted. You've been too good for that man, and look what he's done to you. Men are all alike."

"Stop it, Mother; he's Koichi's father."

"I've said what I think."

"But I'm a man, Grandmother," I said. "At least I will be."

"You're my grandson," she said and closed her eyes. "There will be many hardships. You don't speak their tongue, and you're different from them. You don't know what it is to be different from everybody else. You don't even know what it is to be alone, to have no one to comfort you. But you're young, full of foolish ideas.... If you really want to go, then go. My grandson..." she said as if to herself.

I realized then that she wasn't only saying that she would miss me—she was thinking about her death, that our parting would be final. I never knew she cared for me that much.

"We must stop this right now. This is supposed to be a joyous occasion. I'll go and put the kettle on," said Mother and went to the kitchen.

Mother must be craving for a cigarette, I thought. Tokida would have gone mad without one by now. Though Mother never said much in front of Grandmother, I knew she was a woman of strong will. She was glad that I was going, for my sake, and I was glad to be out of her way. I wondered how long it would be before she would remarry.

***

Father began to send me a steady stream of letters, instructing me in the tedious business of getting my papers in order. At the beginning of February he wrote to say that he was coming to Tokyo for a few days, to be interviewed by the American Consul General, and also to take care of some business. He gave me the date of his arrival and the name of the hotel where he would stay, and asked me to reserve one day to spend with him. Now that my school knew I was leaving I was excused from classes almost at will.

A day after Father arrived I went to the big European-style hotel to meet him. I asked for him at the front desk and waited in the lobby. I felt nervous about meeting Father for the first time in more than four years. I tried to imagine what he would look like now, but the only picture that came to my mind was the look on his face as he'd slipped his gold watch off his wrist to give me when we'd parted.

In about five minutes Father came out of the elevator. He seemed shorter than I remembered. When he spotted me his face broke into a big grin. He hadn't changed much, though now there was more white than black in his hair.

"Don't tell me you're still growing," he exclaimed as he walked up to me. Father was always a little theatrical and his exhibitionism embarrassed me. Then he did a strange thing: He extended his right hand toward me and held it there. He meant for me to shake it, but I just stared at it, because it isn't customary for Japanese to shake hands. Finally, I took his hand and shook it meekly, and noticed how small his hand was, with short, stubby fingers. It was as if my father had shrunk since the last time I'd seen him.

"You haven't eaten, have you?" he asked. I shook my head. "Good, we're going to have a good lunch. You don't mind if my business associate joins us, do you?" he said, and before I could reply he grasped me by the arm and ushered me to the front desk.

"Meet my son," he said grandly to the clerk and handed him his room key.

"A fine-looking young man, sir," said the clerk and gave me a short bow.

We walked out into the cold. Like so many short men, Father had very good posture, and walked briskly. He reached out and pulled my left hand out of my coat pocket.

"Don't you have a pair of gloves?" he asked.

"I don't need them," I said.

"Try this." He removed a suede glove from his hand and gave it to me, but of course it was too small for me.

"What am I going to do with you? I bet you can't wear ready-made clothes anymore." Father looked embarrassed. "So what sport do you play?"

"I don't have much time for sports, Father."

"Not even soccer?"

"No, but I've been taking karate lessons."

"Ha!" he cried and took a leaping step ahead of me, then turned suddenly to face me, standing in a classic boxer's stance.

"Come, hit me!" he challenged with a mocking smile.

In his youth Father had been a professional boxer in Shanghai. I remembered the time when he had brought home two pairs of boxing gloves that an American soldier had given him. And with the heavy practice gloves he gave me my first boxing lesson. It wasn't much of a lesson—all he did was jab me in the face with his quick hands until my nose bled and I began to cry. My crying made him furious. He continued jabbing me until Mother came running out of the house to save me. My face was covered with blood and tears.

The same man now beckoned me teasingly with his raised fists. I was at least five inches taller than he, and with my long legs I could have kicked him in his groin and disabled him in an instant. I stared at him, not knowing whether to laugh or go through a mock fight with him. Then Father took a step and shot his left hand at my shoulder, to give me a tap, no doubt, a friendly gesture. I should have stood still, but automatically my right hand flew up to block his strike. It was pure reflex. Our forearms made contact,
and the momentum of my strike sent his arm flying up in the air. The smile on his face disappeared.

"You're quick, aren't you?" he said and nudged my shoulder with his closed fist. I stood still this time. I wanted to apologize, but didn't. He did not like apologies.

He began to walk quickly once again, leading the way.

"What would you like to do this afternoon?" he asked.

"There are a lot of good movies," I said, not knowing what else to suggest.

"Let's see a movie then; you make the choice."

He took me to a well-known European restaurant where his associate joined us. We went through the usual introduction, his friend asking my age, commenting on my height. Father beamed with pride, grasping my arm and giving me a light punch on the shoulder. Then the two discussed business the rest of the time. Father ate like a Westerner, handling his knife and fork with ease. I tried to imitate him, though it was an awkward way to eat.

"So what's your plan for the afternoon?" asked his friend.

"I think we'll take in a movie. There are only two theaters where I live."

His friend made a clacking sound with his tongue in disapproval.

"A movie? Why not Nichigeki? Your son looks old enough for that sort of thing." He nodded at me with a knowing smile.

"Perhaps next time," said Father. "I think a movie is in order."

"Let me take you there before you leave Tokyo. You shouldn't miss the striptease theater; it's the best thing in town," he said.

I wished I hadn't said anything about movies—I felt I was wasting Father's ume. But he seemed to enjoy the movie and it was a relief for me to sit in the dark theater and not have to talk for two hours.

When we came out of the theater Father looked at his watch and said, "I'd like to take you to dinner but I have a business engagement. Give me a call tomorrow and maybe we can spend a few hours together. Here..." He started to give me some money.

"I still have the money you sent me," I told him.

"Take it anyway. I want you to buy decent luggage, and have some clothes made, at least one suit."

I thanked him and stuffed the large bills in my pocket.

"I'm glad you're coming with me, son," he said, and grasped my right hand with both hands and squeezed hard.

I wanted to tell him that I was glad also, but all I could do was to nod to him awkwardly. He walked away quickly, without looking back. He's going to call his friend and they're going to see the striptease, I thought to myself.

To make clothes to take to America seemed silly, and as for the luggage I could easily fit everything I needed in one suitcase. I was planning to ask Mother to let me have the suitcase we used when we left Father; somehow it seemed right that I should take it on my long journey.

Time passed quickly. I left school at the end of May to prepare for my departure. There wasn't much to prepare—I just wanted some time to myself. Though I was to leave in the middle of the following month, I didn't believe that I was actually going, and yet I had a brand-new passport with my picture in it. I still had all the money Father had given me, and the check he'd sent me still lay in my desk drawer. I don't know why, but I hesitated to use his money on myself, and in the end I decided to buy gifts with it. I went to an expensive gift shop in the Ginza and chose a briar pipe for Sensei and a fancy English lighter for Tokida. I also bought a small gold pin for Michiko. While I was making the selection I noticed a carved jewelry box made of hardwood which played a
little metallic tune when it was opened. I decided to send one to Reiko. I knew I meant nothing to her, and I would probably never see her again, but perhaps the gift would let her know that I still thought about her. In a way she
was
like a painting, flat and mindless. Maybe she would remember me every time she took a necklace or something out of the box. I wanted to get something for Mother as well, but didn't feel right buying her a gift with Father's money; besides, both Mother and Grandmother had asked me to leave them my oil paintings.

When I got home with the gifts I opened the music box, wound the spring and lifted the cover. A chill ran up and down my spine.
The glow of fireflies, the snow on the windowsill
... It was playing "Auld Lang Syne," a tune the Japanese had adopted long ago as
the
farewell song, the song children sing at graduations. I thought of running back to the store to exchange it for some other tune. Anything but this. Sending that tune to Reiko was like sending a sick person a bunch of red camellias, the symbol of decapitation. Then the irony of it dawned on me and I burst out laughing; it was a perfect gift for her. I wrapped up the box and went to the post office to mail it.

Father brought his family to Tokyo a week before our departure. My stepmother had never been outside Kyushu, and Tokyo must have seemed like a foreign country to her. She looked exactly the way I remembered her, a calm and gentle woman. I was glad to see her. My stepsister was now five years old and she didn't remember me at all.

Father took me aside and whispered to me, "I'd like to see your mother before we leave."

That surprised me. After all, he was the one who had refused to see Mother in the past.

"Will you talk to her?" asked Father.

"I'll call her and ask," I replied.

"Tomorrow will be good. Ask her if she can have lunch with us. We'll meet her in Yokohama."

He was expecting me to join them, and I didn't look forward to their meeting.

Mother was surprisingly calm when I told her.

"Tomorrow?" she said, and there was a pause. I had a feeling she was checking her calendar. "Yes, tomorrow will be fine."

"Father wants to have lunch somewhere in Yokohama."

"That's a good idea. You know where Midori's is, don't you, the restaurant near the harbor? I'll meet you there at one."

Next day Father bought first-class train tickets and we sat in silence in a nearly empty car. Noticing my silence, he became talkative, pointing out some of the landmarks that had survived the bombings. I felt like I was being an accomplice—in what I didn't know.

Mother was waiting for us outside the restaurant when we arrived. They greeted each other with a slight nod and smiled. I looked at the harbor full of foreign ships, flying colored flags. Then my parents went up the staircase, and I followed them into a bright room with large windows that looked out onto the harbor. A waiter seated us by a window.

Father was the first to speak.

"Would you like a cocktail?" he asked Mother.

"If you're having one," Mother said and took out a cigarette. Before I could strike a match Father produced a gold lighter. Though there was no wind, Mother reached with her left hand and cupped the flame and touched Father's hand. I didn't know if it was an accident, but suddenly I felt like a child, having seen the scene so many times.

"It's amazing how many places I still recognize," said Father, lighting his own cigarette.

"This neighborhood wasn't hit too badly," said Mother. "But I don't think you'd recognize the area where I have my shop."